Funeral Rain
by Breeze of Summoners
Summary: With nothing left to do for his kingdom, Wardell has to try and escape a Bumercia swarming with enemies, death, and a lack of hope.


**Funeral Rain**

There was a rumor that, before a great battle or eminent doom, there was peace and resignation. There was a calm before the storm, as everyone silently, individually faced the death that was before him or her. Then the hurricane raged upon them, and they fought valiantly, losing their calm to the winds of death.

Burmecia did not have that calm. No one expected a sudden army to rampage across the plateau. There had been peace, silence, and a steady calm that was expected to stay. The inhabitants "embraced the art of war", the Cleyrans liked to taunt. That didn't mean they were always religiously following it. In peace, there was the slightest slack. When the guards saw the army massing towards their kingdom, they immediately notified the city, and uproar resulted.

It was not enough to save them. But then, nothing would have been. The kingdom was hopelessly, painfully outnumbered and beaten before the battle had even truly begun. He remembered well the looks upon the soldiers of the Alexandrian army. Some of them had the blank face of mindless killers, casting spells heartlessly to slaughter innocent and soldier alike. The others had the grim look of duty and determination. Duty and mindlessness created the ultimate army.

And so they were senselessly slaughtered.

---

Wardell granted himself a wince as he huddled in an uncomfortable yet blissfully inconspicuous corner of the Palace. Granted, because he normally tried to keep the stoic, emotionless attitude of a soldier who would fight to the death to defend his kingdom. The only problem that someone had very near cut his arm off, he had seen many of his comrades die before his eyes, and a mix between lost hope and pure cowardice had made him slip away from the oncoming slaughter. He had figured he would die anyway. He had not. Now he had to deal with the guilt.

By letting himself wince, he was acknowledging that he was in excruciating pain, and that he wasn't about to pass out and be spared it anytime soon. That was the first part of his punishment for running away. The next part was trying to figure out why, exactly, he had abandoned his country and hidden from the army. If it was a good enough reason, he would permit himself to live and deal with the nightmares and guilt that came with it. If not, well, he still had his sword.

The echoing shout of a demon made the soldier jump and grab for said sword. Just as quickly he remembered how weak he had become in a few hours, and how hard it was to hold his sword with one hand, extreme blood loss, and no room. His arm wobbled, the sword jerking this way and that, as he seemed likely to cut himself in half rather than the demon shouting its way through the room. Wardell gritted his teeth, staring at the sword and willing it to stop wobbling and start acting proper. He dropped it instead.

The echo of steel against stone was far too loud, and Wardell scrambled in a panic to his feet. His head spun and he whammed into the wall, knocking his vision for a worst spin than before. However, he remembered very well how to throw himself to the floor when a scream of "KILL!" was accompanied by a fireball. Heat seared above him, blasting into the wall and knocking him even further into the ground, scraping his already half-dead arm and leaving a stain of blood on the stones below him. The Burmecian reached out for his sword and, pretending his arm worked just fine, staggered to his feet. He wobbled and fell, just avoiding another two or three fireballs that whizzed over his head.

Well, it looked like he wouldn't have to worry about cowardice. The enemy had come to him. Wardell wasn't nearly as happy or relieved as he thought he'd be. In situations this dismal, duty seemed a penance rather than blessing.

_There's a treasonous thought,_ Wardell thought to himself as he crawled on his stomach toward one of the pointy-hatted demons in the room. Maybe, they were stupid, and wouldn't see that he was alive despite being on the ground.

They weren't. Well, maybe they were, but the demons were attracted to movement, and Wardell cursed as a flurry of fireballs zoomed toward his position. He rolled painfully out of the way, grabbing at his sword once more in the process. The heat seared him, and he staggered to his feet once more, this time not bothering to hold the sword high and proud. He ran madly toward the mages, grateful when his staggering meant that he often staggered out of the way of the fireballs. He reached the first pest, and with a brave battle cry, swept his sword upward.

He cleaved the mage in half, then collapsed as pain lanced through his arm. His sword swooped up from too much swing, and with another curse the Burmecian rolled desperately out of the way. Fireballs rocketed into his sword as it clattered to the ground, and Wardell hoped that it didn't melt his sword. He then had no time to think about it as more fireballs whizzed after him, and he had to concentrate on running -- or perhaps staggering -- as fast as he could.

His sword was fine. Too bad he was too far away to get to it. That required a new strategy. Running away wasn't an option; he would be a sitting duck, to a point. Besides, he would probably only run into more soldiers, and meet his end after all the trouble. Running further into the palace would endanger the king, and he didn't plan on being _truly_ treasonous any time soon. He could try to get to his sword, but that would put him closer to the mages than was comfortable. Unfortunately, that only left running a lot as his strategy.

It was better than sitting still and dying, and so Wardell staggered about, occasionally dropping, ducking, or rolling to try and avoid the flames. However, his arm was getting no better in the process, and Wardell could feel his reasoning and, perhaps, life slipping away as he tried to avoid certain death. As it continued endlessly, and the mages kept on firing, he wondered, not when he would be saved, but when the rest of the army would come in and spare him this ridicule.

Then a dragon's head appeared out of no where, accompanied with a smattering of rose petals. Flames erupted around the mages and they were reduced to dust in an instant. Wardell, with a surprised gasp, tripped over himself and fell hard to the ground. A pause, then a soft wind brushed over him, magic humming in his ears as he felt it work at slowly sealing his wounds. It couldn't replenish his blood, though, and so Wardell only had the strength to look up and see where in the world his new hero was.

He then groaned and laid his head on the stone when he saw him.

"Now how much am I going to owe you?" he asked weakly, watching the Burmecian as he scanned the area for any other soldiers.

"I'll decide later. Can you stand? Or flee? Burmecia isn't safe anymore." Hearing those words from the Dragon Knight was like having the world collapse around him. The Burmecian smiled grimly, seeming to sense these feelings. "It's a sad day indeed when I admit such. I'm afraid it is true. The Alexandrian army will soon be here, ransacking the place."

"I... Don't know if I can move or not," Wardell admitted weakly, even as he shifted painfully into a sitting position. "Is the King...?"  
"I don't know." Another bad thing to hear from a Dragon Knight. The warrior shifted his lance from one hand to another, another sign of impending doom. "I only know that I have not seen him in the entire fight, and I hope that means he is somewhere safe. Though I don't know where that is anymore." The words were accompanied by a sigh.

Wardell glanced over at his friend, frowning at the sorrow etching the Burmecian's face. He was used to seeing the Burmecian in a calm, confident mood, ready to make the world rotate in another direction if he so saw fit. The fact that he was standing smeared with blood, shifting his lance, and frowning was a bad sign of how the battle was going. Wardell didn't need any more signs that his kingdom was utterly destroyed.

It especially didn't help that he had no idea what he was going to do. Regen was helping heal his wounds, certainly, and now that he wasn't losing any more blood, he didn't feel any worse. He still wasn't healthy enough to fight, however, and one Burmecian stood no chance against an entire army. Killing just one demon had been difficult enough; three had almost killed him. The entire army could slaughter him in an instant, adding him to the painfully high casualty list.

He should have been resigned to such a fate, but it instead made his skin crawl. Wardell cast a desperate look at the Dragon Knight... And then swiftly regretted it.

"If you need assistance, I could try to get you out of the palace, at least," the Knight offered calmly, approaching him.

"No," Wardell stated immediately, staggering to his feet. "Your duty is to the King, not me. I can escape on my own."

"The King isn't here. There isn't anything else I can do for him now except help save some of his loyal subjects," the Burmecian replied, still approaching. "Besides, it wouldn't be difficult. One good throw and a window will break. I could slip you out of there, give you a few directions, and you should be all right."

"Vid... I appreciate it, really, but--" His argument was broken off by the castle's shuddering. Wardell's eyes widened; there was only one structure in the immediate area that would make that bad of a disturbance when damaged.

Vid knew it too. "Forget it! Quick!" With a rush of white light, Vid leapt and slammed his lance into a window. The glass shattered and showered the Burmecian, who rolled out of the way once on the ground. Wardell let out a yelp of protest -- he was too weak, he would die anyway, he wasn't even worth it -- but was completely ignored. Vid hoisted him into the air, rushed through the directions, and then dropped him unceremoniously out the window.

Wardell landed hard, rolling off the bushes with a restrained yelp. His sword shortly followed out of the window, clattering against the ground. He staggered to it and placed it in its sheath, then took a last desperate look up at the window. He could see no sign of his hero, but heard a few shouts within the castle. He hoped against hope that Vid would somehow survive, then turned and staggered through the streets, thankful as the Regen spell continued to do its job.

Slipping with ease down one of the thinner alleys, he realized painfully how much of a ghost town Burmecia was. In the royal quarters, where the army apparently had just arrived, there were little bodies. The rain could not wash out the smell of blood and death, however, and a wind brought the foreboding stench toward him. He swallowed hoarsely and forced himself forward, ignoring his arm so he wouldn't clutch at it and impede his movement.

Walking through a maze of alleyways and small streets, Wardell was stunned by his luck. Wherever the invading army was, it hadn't bothered to check any alleyways. Of course, he realized bitterly, that could be because nothing was _in_ the alleyways. He had met no other Burmecians, or even seen anything living at all. He hadn't found any dead bodies, either, but he couldn't help the sense of foreboding as he made his way slowly yet surely toward the gate that separated the royal quarters from the rest of the city.

As he rounded the last alleyway, he discovered why. Stifling a panicked yelp, Wardell screeched to a stop, staggering into a wall in the process. He winced at how loud the noise seemed, then began to back away slowly, hoping desperately that he wasn't seen or heard. For before him, marching in a massive line, was the Alexandrian army, unheeded and unstopped as they went with a purpose. Demons among humans, weapons bloodied, spells ready, and faces emotionless and hard, they marched through to the Palace unstopped.

Tears burned his vision as he realized that Vid stood against this army, alone and lost, outnumbered a hundred -- no, a thousand to one. Unless there were other soldiers that he wasn't aware of, which seemed likely, but even then, they stood no chance. They would all be slaughtered.

Safely -- if such existed anymore -- behind the building, Wardell listened quietly as the army thundered toward the palace, trying to steady his breaths. They had clearly been commanded to go straight to find the King; otherwise, he would be dead as they searched the alleys. It was frugal luck, but he accepted it gratefully, clutching at his arm and ignoring the pain as Regen slowly wore off. All he could do was wait.

Then a shout of death made him jump as fire slammed into the house beside him. Whipping out his sword too quickly, Wardell staggered into an untouched house and stared there, watching and waiting. Too slowly, a demon, bright yellow eyes burning into his soul, walked towards him. It paused, then lifted its hands. Even as it shouted, Wardell rushed forward. He slammed into the house, wincing from the heat of the structure -- could fire spread that quickly inside? -- then arced his sword upward. Even as he sliced into the demon's arm, it lifted its hands, facing him.

Wardell ducked the fireball, ignoring the flames licking at his hair as he swept his sword into the beast's stomach. It collapsed and he stabbed it in the chest, smoke pluming from his head as the fading Regen spell and rain both worked to put out the few flames. The yellow eyes flicked out like a candle and the demon lay still. Wardell let out a gasp of pain as adrenaline quickly fled and left him with a reminder of his arm would definitely be useless after all of this.

Suddenly, he remembered that this alley was open to the approaching army. Wardell's head jerked up, and he almost collapsed into the doll with relief. The army had passed by; apparently the demon he had killed was one of the stragglers, perhaps sent to root out any other "rats" hiding. Wardell's eyes narrowed as he looked around quickly, but he spotted no other demons. Taking a deep breath, he put his sword away, then staggered out toward the gate.

Nothing stopped him, though the stairs looked intimidating enough. Gasping as the pain steadily increased, Wardell made his way up the stairs. He paused, gasping, as he reached the top, staring with horror at what should have been the door to the gate, and instead looked more like a dented, effectively destroyed piece of stone. The door had been brutally forced open, and it looked like it had taken plenty of damage in the process. Frowning, the Burmecian stumbled his way down the stairs, steadying himself against the wall when he was in danger of falling, before finally reaching the entrance.

He quietly slipped through, sword drawn as he scanned the area for any enemies. However, his shoulders sagged with relief when he saw who was there.

"Wardell!" One of the soldiers rushed forward. "How is it in there?"

"Bad," Wardell admitted bluntly. "The last soldier I saw was Vid. He told me to leave, that there was no point in staying. I... Didn't really have much choice but to obey."

The soldier nodded sympathetically. "I can imagine. He was the only one?" At Wardell's nod, he sighed. "Then damn, I suppose we should go help them. We've rooted out as many mages as we can, but be careful. There may still be one or two. I would send someone with you to see you out but..." He shrugged.

Wardell smiled grimly. "I understand... Good luck. Don't die."

"I've been trying not to. Perhaps we will see each other at some time," the soldier replied, his face painfully calm as he shook Wardell's hand. "Best of luck to you too."

The Burmecians nodded at each other, then Wardell watched as the smattering of soldiers slipped through the ruined door and up the stairs. The grim looks on their faces let him know that they knew their fate; his condition had probably only sealed it for them. The Burmecian bowed his head, eyes closed, then turned to face the last leg of the city.

As he set off, he realized it would take steel determination. For everywhere there lay bodies. Soldiers lay with their weapons thrown aside. Unrecognizable bodies, charred beyond relief, littered the streets. Men and women alike were dead in the streets, their blood staining the stones. Those who had tried to flee had been cut down in their retreat, fear etched forever on their faces. Some laid alone in their death; others had died in masses, cut or burnt down by the army.

He tried to avoid the worst of it, his iron will deteriorating rapidly as he was faced with the slaughter of his kingdom and friends. But even the alleyways contained the dead. Those who had tried to hide were discovered and killed where they stood. It was not a proper fight, nor a noble one. It was slaughter. Wardell hands tightened over his sword as he looked around, daring one of the intruders to slip out from a hiding spot and challenge him. Even as he knew he was helpless and rapidly running out of luck, he dared someone to test him.

Someone screamed. Wardell recognized the distinct sound of a fireball shortly thereafter. The scream was cut off, and Wardell gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing. He tried to tell himself to keep going, but his pride and anger refused it. Even as he knew it was suicide, he turned in the direction of the murder, slipping through the alleyways.

The demon found him first. It rounded the corner, stared, then shouted and sent a fireball in his direction. Wardell ducked down, willing himself not to collapse, then whipped out his sword and stabbed the demon in the gut. He shoved, and the two fell to the ground. He realized the silliness of the plan just in time to roll off and avoid being burnt by a close-up fireball. The fireball soared upward in the sky, soon nothing more than a plume of smoke as the rain slowly consumed it. Turning, Wardell grabbed his sword and stabbed the beast in the chest.

A sword whizzed worryingly close to his head. With a startled shout, Wardell stepped back, staggered, and fell to the ground. Seconds later, he held his sword up in a weak parry as a sword was swept at his throat. His defense held, but another attack was soon aimed, and Wardell scrambled backward, trying desperately to block. Then, with what seemed far too quick for reality, his sword was knocked from his hands. Wardell ducked and rolled away as the soldier aimed for a killing blow, hoping to get the weapon back.

The enemy soldier's sword sparked against the stone behind him. Panic seized him, and Wardell scrambled forward and desperately reached for his sword. He swiftly realized his folly when the soldier cut at his arm, slicing a deep wound. He yelped and drew it back, leaving scraped skin and a massive wound, but keeping his arm. However, with both arms now in grave danger of being lost, he realized quickly that he had signed his death warrant.

As he scrambled up and made a desperate flee, he knew why, exactly, panic was normally beaten out of soldiers. Staggering around a building, he made a mad dash toward the gates surrounding his doomed kingdom. At the sound of a fireball, he threw himself into the ground, allowing it to pass over his head. When he barely managed to get back up, though, he knew that that tactic would quickly have to be abandoned. The soldier's uncomfortable closeness also made him decide that staying upright would have to be his only way of escaping.

He heard the fireball and dashed desperately into an alleyway. He quickly regretted his choice of alleyway when he almost collided with another demon. He thought quickly, then shoved by the demon and took a right turn down a different alleyway. He heard the demon following him as he staggered and ran. A shout of kill preluded him to the magic, but as he ran, he knew he had no where to go. The alleyway was long and seemingly endless, with no turns.

With a resigned sigh, Wardell threw himself into the ground, allowed the fireball to go over him, and wondered quietly if anyone would ever find him.

-----

Yes, I am so evil that I'm ending this right here. Mainly because I can't think of anything else, and if it gets any crappier, there will be problems. I should be writing my novel, but procrastination is so much fun. And I haven't written FanFiction in a few years. I really have no idea why I wrote this, other than to add sorrow, angst, and sadness to a situation that already has more than enough of all three. So yeah. I'm alive. I just don't write FanFiction anymore, except when procrastinating.

I may be tempted to write a sequel to this, as I like Wardell and his amazing ability to not die. He should get an award.

For some fun, Wardell's name was going to be Zhelyazko Elkanah, because it means, basically, "God has purchased iron". I got it from Behind the Name's Random Name Generator and was so amused that I _almost_ used it. But then I decided to use the more normal name it gave me afterwards.

I don't own Final Fantasy IX. SquareEnix does, and thus has all copyrights to it. You are all aware of that. I haven't played Final Fantasy IX in years, so I apologize for any screw-ups; this is based purely on memory and a script I found online. And that's really it. Hope you enjoyed the random story, and be sure to check out my FictionPress account, my website, or even my LiveJournal if you want to get regular updates of my writing.

Thank you for reading.


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